I am see-through like glass, more each day. Disappearing. Last night, by the cold beer pump blooming condensation, a man sailed up, hands together like prayer, before swishing me violently up the bar to the pot wash. Not a glance. His call, two pints of Blanco Blonde. Her, coming right up. Ale pulled lean tattoo. Me flown up the room, purple dress limp, glint of earring dropping

in the ocean, plastic bags are almost invisible, swallowed by sea turtles seeking jellyfish. Condoms, shrunken mylar balloons, cling film. Durable materials with stretch, like rivers, streaming into the deeps. Undigested in the stomach

two weeks past, a Volvo reversed so close in the multistory it brushed my lumped-up bag of milk and bananas and bread, split it to asphalt. They heard me, the shoppers, but seeing nothing, walked on. Later, the lollipop man cracked sweet on the curb, silent, seeing nothing in me, cars still at it. I went to get a paper after, jangling the doorbell, but the newsagent he looked up confused, only seeing air

research suggests that changes in jellyfish populations are linked to human activity. An increase in abundance or range might be caused by heat or acidity. Global warming creates a rising baseline against which climate cycles cause fluctuations in numbers. Jelly blooms

I existed for the walking club longer, but am now vanishing for them too. The holder of brambles and twigs in his sturdy leather boots whips branches back in my face, stinging to pink welts. I crash behind making noise enough for six but they only glance back, saying it’s just the beaters flushing out game

a bloom is a substantial increase in jellyfish population within a short period. Blooms, swarms, smacks. Seen from above, the bloom is a single mass. Blooms change the ecological composition and structure, reducing available prey. The purple jellyfish can grow as wide as forty-five centimeters. It provides a temporary home to fish and young crabs as it floats on the currents

last summer, dark purple jellies littering the flat mud beach like so many discarded placentas, couldn’t move for them, people yelping, exaggerated hops over bodies. Offal. The beach edged with white-plastic-chair swiggers of Redstripe and Diet Coke, cousins staining tongues blue with raspberry ice. Eat glitter for breakfast and sparkle all day. Novelty soaps and sticks of rock

sea jellies are mostly water so evaporate when washed up on shore. Their bodies are mesoglea, without brain, blood, heart, or bones. Tiny creeping jellies reproduce asexually by fission: splitting in half. Moon jellies have translucent white bells with purple gonads. They float under the surface like ghosts

that couple sauntering ahead at Station Taxis, passing me at the front with my ghostly hair, dragged newspaper cheeks, pale and pulpy, waiting in the dark after train. He helped her in, flirting, heels clicking, slid the door, but the driver up front frozen, engine still running, he has glimpsed me through the windscreen in headlamp beams, sea snakes reflecting in his eyes

jellyfish have survived for hundreds of millions of years. Fossils contain evidence of population booms 540 million years ago. Before the dinosaurs. The sea wasp can kill a human in less than five minutes. The crystal jelly is transparent and colorless but can light up like a firefly

creatures are coming home in me, spiders and little beetles, nestling in purple skirts trailing the streets and I drift them, floating to nowhere much. They even sweep with me astonished to the pot wash

immortal jellyfish reconstitute themselves as polyps. The life cycle starts over again, frog to tadpole, butterfly to caterpillar. Transdifferentiation. Near miracle

the old man at work who said pardon pardon I can’t hear you has been saying nothing since I went cellophane. Even under last night’s moon I ran in glorious silence, tight pink leggings, shining lime bra, with the whistling calling horning heads from windows never coming

jellyfish can severely disrupt industry, splitting fishing nets, crushing captured fish, clogging pipes, trashing tourist beaches. Capsized boats, cascading blackouts. Some power plants use bubble curtains to lift jellyfish, reducing the number that are sucked into the pumps

at the pot wash I find I am not by myself, stooping to dropped-earring glint on the carpet but finding only light, fingers of silk. They are here, parachuting around me, blooming mauve and milk and silver by the drains

in the thickest blooms there can be more jellyfish than water, hundreds of tonnes of jelly weight. Warm water may lead to booms in population. Swarms can extend for miles

we here at the pot wash are gathering, Blanco Blonde splashes of clothes, shirts soaking gold, skirts igniting: a vast swarm, laughing wild. The colors are rising, the conditions are right. We clog the pipes already, sink flooding, foaming the carpet, scumming wet brogues

tentacles are lined with barbed stingers. Each has a bulb of venom used for protection and to kill prey. The tube penetrates the skin and releases venom. May enter the bloodstream. Jellyfish washed up on beaches can still release stingers if touched

we are bloom, swarm, smack. Prayer-swish man catches a glint, streaming pale heat, pink welts. Purple mesoglea, ghostly snakes. Trailing, immortal. He staggers back, milky-faced. The lights cut. Men in suits in the dark, wading for fire exits, frantic. We are lion’s mane, golden, bloodybelly, wasp. Jangling bells and fireflies. We are bloom.